


Mittens

by yeaka



Category: Dirk Gently's Holistic Detective Agency (TV 2016)
Genre: Ficlet, M/M, Winter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-13
Updated: 2018-10-13
Packaged: 2019-08-01 08:18:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 963
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16280924
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: Silas attends the winter festival.





	Mittens

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I don’t own Dirk Gently’s Holistic Detective Agency or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

The Winter Festival is a gorgeous affair, complete with coloured lights and dancing trees and living statues made of snow. The ground itself is white and fluffy, chilling to touch, but that’s part of the charm—the way everyone freezes up and has to huddle under blankets for warmth. Warmer treats are handed out, mugs of hot chocolate and applesauce, and even cups of melted toffee. Silas’ teeth feel like they’re going to rot out of his mouth, but that’s just another joyous ache in the festivities. 

Best of all is the way that _everyone_ comes together; even Silas’ mother has come to Inglenook, because it’s their turn to host the parade. On the walk over, she complained more than once about how much poorer it is when anyone but a Dengdamor hosts, but in Silas’ opinion, winter’s never been more beautiful. He’s glad to have finally managed to slip away from her. Instead, he stands beside the handsome prince of all the valley, rubbing one hand vigorously through a leather-bound palm to try and warm up. Panto squeezes around him, doing a wonderful job.

They’re on the outer edge of the crowd—as they need to be if they’re going to risk holding hands—but it doesn’t matter; Silas can still see the decorated treetops passing by over the heads of everyone in front of him. The snow-people are singing loud enough to be heard all the way into the woods. Most people are laughing and cheering, several clapping and singing along. The only thing that could possibly make the evening any better would be if he and Panto had a blanket to share. And maybe if they were more in private. Maybe sitting beside the fireplace. Just the two of them. It could still be cold and winter—just with Panto’s glowing love to warm him up. 

When Silas open his mouth to join in with the chorus, his teeth chatter too much to form the words, and he ends up shutting it. Panto glances sideways at him, always able to tell when something’s off. He leans in to whisper right into Silas’ ear, “Are you cold, my love?”

With another subtle shiver, both from the temperature and proximity to Panto, Silas nods. Panto licks his lips, glances back towards the crowd, then steps between it and Silas. He quietly takes both of Silas’ wrists in his hands and slips them under his tunic, pressing Silas’ freezing hands directly against his skin. It makes a shudder run through Silas, and he has to bite back a gasp at the stifling heat. Better yet is the soft feeling of Panto’s body and the hardness of his abs, each tone and line easy for Silas to discern without looking. Just like that, he isn’t cold anymore. His whole body’s _hot_. In that moment, Silas wants nothing more than to kiss Panto into oblivion.

They can’t, of course. And the moment’s ruined when Wygar appears out of nowhere, butting in to slap Silas’ arm. Silas instantly drops his hands away, letting Panto’s tunic fall back into place. Wygar doesn’t spare him a second glance, just mutters to Silas, “Your mother looks for you.”

Silas feels like ice. He offers Panto a weak smile, and Panto smiles sadly back—they both know the drill. Silas has no choice but to follow his retainer back to where his own family’s gathered, tightly knotted in and hissing heavy complaints. Only Farson seems immune to it—he stands closer to the crowd, leaning up on his tiptoes to see more of the parade. Silas hopes he’s having a wonderful time. 

His mother spares him a bitter glare, as though he’s committed a grave sin in daring to stand elsewhere, but he does his best to ignore it. There’s no need to completely ruin the festivities. Even if he is cold again. He crosses his arms, shoving his bare hands into his armpits, and tries not to slip into idle daydreams of using Panto like a private furnace. 

Only a few minutes later, a delivery cat scratches his boot and meows up at him. Silas blinks down at it—the Dengdamors don’t exchange gifts during the winter like the Trosts do, and he already has his gift from Panto, nicely wrapped up and hidden under his bed for the right day to open it. But delivery cats never get the wrong person, and its yellow eyes stare up at him expectantly while the present on its back waits in the wicker basket.

With one surreptitious glance at his mother, who’s no longer paying him any mind, he ducks down to retrieve the gift, of course thanking the cat with several pets. It mewls happily at him before meandering away, until someone else commandeers it for a mission. 

The gift is small and lightweight, wrapped only in coloured paper, as with all parcels delivered by cat instead of lion. He swiftly pulls away the ribbon and wrapping, only to find a brand new pair of green gloves.

He knows exactly who they must be from. And they match his favourite ensemble perfectly. He pulls them on and beams at them, no longer cold at all.

But that might just be the love warming him.

When he next looks up, he finds Panto standing on the outskirts of the crowd, far enough away that they can’t talk, but close enough that Silas can see the sentiment in his expression. Silas lifts his newly gloved hands to his mouth as though to cup and warm his breath, but really, he’s kissing the fabric. 

He wants to blow that kiss to Panto, but Panto must already know that. When the next song begins, the both of them join in, right in perfect harmony.


End file.
